


Strawberry Shortcake (and Other Disasters)

by aurevell



Series: Free Flowers, Fast Food [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Anniversary, Established Relationship, Finstock supports the Sterek but will never say so aloud, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Small Romantic Gestures, Stiles's general clumsiness, Valentine's Day, Valentine's date shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:54:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29431308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aurevell/pseuds/aurevell
Summary: Derek’s struggling with a massive paper, Stiles is on the evening shift, and their first anniversary is shaping up to be kind of a wash. And of course, it’s also Valentine’s day.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: Free Flowers, Fast Food [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2161938
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74
Collections: Sterek Valentine Week





	Strawberry Shortcake (and Other Disasters)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a late fic for Sterek Valentine Week, and it was actually meant to come out earlier (for Tuesday’s “anniversary” prompt), but I couldn’t quite manage it in time. Honestly, it’s a little bit of a miracle that I (barely) made it in time for Valentine’s at all! It’s also technically a sequel to Free Flowers, Fast Food, but you don’t super have to read it, all you need to know is that it will be an established college relationship fluff/trash fic :)

“So, just to confirm, I _am_ the world’s worst boyfriend,” Stiles sighs.

It takes Derek a second to pull his gaze away from his laptop screen, but at last he looks over to find Stiles rummaging through the clothes in the drawer he’s claimed as his own. His movements are agitated and a little frantic, probably because he’s running behind schedule.

He’s also shirtless, which means Derek stares at the movements of his back muscles for an extra second before he catches the unhappiness laced through Stiles’s words.

“You aren’t,” Derek protests with an eyeroll, lowering his Civ notes. “We talked about this already. If you have work, you have work. And anyway, we’re going out this weekend instead.”

“Yeah, but today’s Valentine’s Day. _And_ our anniversary,” Stiles mourns, finally fishing out what he’s looking for, one of the simple black polos demanded as the server uniforms at Bobby’s. He pulls it on over his head. “Which, again, still wish we’d planned that out better. It’s like having your birthday on Christmas. You basically only get one celebration instead of two.”

Derek turns back to his work, fighting back a smile at the familiar complaint. “Yeah, well, whose fault is that?”

“You were the one who asked _me_ out,” Stiles fires back as he always does, stepping into the bathroom to try to make his messy hair look a little less like a whirlwind—or at least less like he literally sprinted here from his last class.

“Well, maybe if you didn’t look like you do, and literally hand me a rose like you were from The Bachelor or something, we wouldn’t be here,” Derek teases.

This surprises a laugh out of Stiles. “You can only say that because you’ve never actually seen even one bachelor,” he says, though Derek can see from the mirror that his ears have gone pink.

“Uh, I think you’re forgetting that I have sisters. One of whom was literally living right here with me for two years,” he adds, gesturing vaguely to the living area at large. There are still touches of Laura all over: the cheap string of lights she loved to hate, her fake plant on the windowsill, the dry erase board she’d stuck on the fridge. She’d had a fall-semester graduation, leaving Derek on his own—not that he’s complaining, given that his parents are picking up her half of the rent until the end of this semester or until he finds a roommate.

Stiles, on the other hand, doesn’t have the luxury of a parental safety net. His dad’s doting in his own way, but isn’t in much of a position to help Stiles make ends meet. Which is where Bobby’s Grill comes in: Stiles wanted some spare cash, and the shakes are to die for.

“She always had shit taste in reality TV,” Stiles offers, coming out of the bathroom to make a face at him. “You can tell her that directly from me.”

“The point is, just say it’s your fault.”

“Ugh. Fine. It’s my fault.” Stiles’s ears are still pink, but an amused smile has made its way across his ace. He closes the distance between them and leans in for a kiss. The angle is awkward with Derek sitting on the sofa, so he tilts his jaw up to meet it, and Stiles makes a humming sound in the back of his throat before pulling away. He pauses, drawing back just a hair’s breadth, then kisses Derek again. When he finally straightens, it’s with a wistful sigh. “Finstock better appreciate the hell out of this,” he says darkly.

“It’s not his fault, either.” Derek rolls his eyes, rearranging his notes for the third time, like that might clarify something.

“Well, at least one good thing comes out of this. No distractions. You get a quiet night to actually finish that hell-paper.”

“Yeah, I really need to,” Derek agrees fervently, wishing there were a ban on making _anything_ worth twenty percent of a person’s grade.

Stiles leans against his side a little, glancing at his laptop screen in sympathy. His gaze grows more focused as he skims: he may be a sophomore to Derek’s senior, but he has a keen eye for writing. Or anyway, it’s better than Derek, who’s in engineering for a reason. Math speaks to him in a way humanities stuff doesn’t, which is why Stiles has become a lifesaver as the last set of eyes to read over most of his essays.

At the moment, though, Stiles pulls away. “Aw, shit, it’s that late already?” he asks, frowning at the clock on the corner of Derek’s screen. “I gotta go. Shit.” He squeezes Derek’s shoulder and then flails for a second, checking his pockets to be sure he’s got his phone, wallet, and keys. “Okay, see you. Text me if you want. I probably won’t have time to answer much, but you still can.”

“Okay. Have a good time at work.”

“I’ll settle for not accidentally stabbing anyone with a fork this time,” Stiles laughs, stepping outside with a wink.

He pulls the door closed, and the apartment goes quiet.

 _Which is a good thing,_ Derek reminds himself, turning back to his laptop to figure out where he left off. He’s not really freaking out about the paper yet, but he’s also not sure his last point made any sense, or at least not the sense he wants it to. _A little quiet should help._

The apartment’s always quiet now, though. With Laura gone, it’s been pretty weird having the place to himself. Her empty bedroom is like this weird void—almost enough for him to consider getting a roommate. If he knew anyone he could tolerate. (Or if Jackson and Boyd hadn’t spent all of yesterday’s basketball practice recapping all their best roommate horror stories—including the rumor that Greenberg’s old roommate turned out to be a doomsday prepper, with a pantry of supplies and a full arsenal of weapons beneath his bed.)

It helps that Stiles is around a lot. Even though he’s good friends with his roommate Scott, he spends most of his time at Derek’s. Which is why he has his own drawer and shelf in the fridge, and why Derek has now seen more episodes of Star Trek than he cares to admit, and why there’s a ranked list next to the door (constantly updated) of the best fries within walking distance of campus.

Derek stares at the screen of his laptop for maybe an hour more, shuffling and reshuffling his notes. _Maybe it’s actually distracting that there_ are _no distractions,_ he thinks eventually.

He turns the TV on, but it doesn’t really help. Today, of course, everything showing has the Valentine’s angle going on, from romantic reality TV to _Titanic_ (yikes) to cooking shows with recipes for two.

At some point, Derek realizes he’s been frowning down at his notes for a few minutes without reading them. A night alone sounded like a good idea to get this paper out of the way before a weekend with Stiles, but maybe that’s not actually what he needs.

He thinks for a moment, then he smiles. Gathering up his notes and laptop, he packs them neatly away.

.

Sometimes these days—well, a lot of the time, actually—Stiles feels like a walking disaster waiting to happen.

The thing about having a boyfriend who’s literally _on scholarship_ to play basketball makes you realize that wow, some people in this life are graceful and you are not one of them. (Not like this has ever been in question before. But just—the way Derek moves feels seriously unfair.) He’s never been more aware of his own clumsiness than when he’s (A) watching Derek glide around the court, or (B) waiting tables, especially since he’s realizing how stupid it was to put himself in a situation that demands basic balance on a regular basis, where he has to pretend _not_ to be a disaster.

It’s harder to keep up that charade than usual today. His half of the diner is absolutely packed. With early twilight just kicking in outside, the rest of the evening promises to be a madhouse.

Stiles isn’t actually complaining about that part. He’s living for tips at this point. He has bills to pay and groceries to buy, and he can’t keep mooching off Lydia’s history textbook for the rest of the semester. Plus, he has a boyfriend he sometimes wants to treat to dinner and stuff, so today’s crowd is a good thing. Or so he reminds himself as he darts from table to table.

It doesn’t keep him from wishing the clamoring crowd could dial itself down by about 200%. Or at least that the whole place was less full of couples rubbing his face in their picture-perfect dates.

He _could_ be a total grouch about it, but it’s not really the kind of person he is (or at least he’s working on that part). Plus, tips don’t just earn themselves. Stiles is usually pretty good with people, at least for short stints of time, so he brings his usual good cheer and tries to be a little extra helpful today. After all, anyone all hopped up on romantic vibes is more likely to throw down a few more bucks at the end of his service, right?

Or at least you’d think so. But Stiles took this job kind of recently, and he’s not as good at predicting tipping patterns as his coworker Danny, who’s been at this for months.

“Hey, don’t even bother with that corner booth,” Danny says as he grabs the order Finstock’s laid down for him, checking it against the ticket.

Stiles pauses mid-stride, frowning at the couple in question. It’s an older guy with a slick smile he won’t stop aiming at his younger date. “Why? His watch probably costs more than my whole semester’s rent.”

“Yeah, but he’s basically a modern Scrooge—comes in here every now and then, but he only rounds up enough to make the total even.”

“He’s gonna give me _pennies_?” The guy’s total was going to be somewhere over fifty dollars, which was actually kind of a feat at a place whose specialty was cheap breakfast fare and banana shakes. “But everything was perfect with their food. And I refilled their drinks twice!”

Danny’s grinning when Stiles turns back, because he gets off on displaying his little magic tricks. “Play nice with table four,” he adds, walking off.

“But—”

“He’s super nervous and she looks way out of his league. Gotta impress.”

Later, when Stiles goes to clear away the table in question, he finds eleven dollars on a twenty-six dollar bill. He’s not sure if his face is awed or disturbed when he catches Danny’s gaze from across the room, but whatever it is makes another slanted grin break across his narrow face.

“How does he _do_ that?” Stiles demands of Finstock later, pulling an array of dirty plates off the bar counter and tossing them into a bus tray. He looks up to find Finstock scowling, so he stacks the next plates neatly on top of each other until the death glare subsides.

“How should I know? He’s a whack job. Best guess is that he programmed some kind of algorithm thing into his own head.”

Finstock says this in his usual deadpan way, but there’s a little bit of respect in there, too: Danny’s in school for IT, but anyone who’s seen him in the same room as a computer knows he’s probably going to take over the world one day, maybe alongside the eventual robot uprising. Plus, anyone who actually managed to convince Finstock to change his mind about anything—most notably the need for a total overhaul of their shitty POS system, which was finally updated two weeks ago—is kind of a genius in Stiles’s book.

“Anyway,” Finstock grunts, turning around to pull away the bus tray and haul it over the counter. He reaches over it to give Stiles’s shoulder a push. “I’m not paying you to stand around and ask questions, I’m paying you to _do_ shit. And to be the charming doofus you are.”

“Aw, thanks Fins,” Stiles replies sarcastically, watching Finstock head toward the sink. “I think.” But he heads over to check on his tables anyway.

He’s not feeling particularly charming tonight, though. Especially after he almost spills a whole tray of strawberry shakes, right into the laps of a table of Galentine’s celebrants. It’s a really close thing, and the girls seem particularly unimpressed by his amazing save.

Later, he decides that it was this close call that lulled him into a false sense of security. Things can always get crazier on a shift, and it pays to remember that.

Stiles likes working at Bobby’s Grill for a couple reasons, aside from (1) the money, duh, and (2) the fact that he can walk here from campus. One of them is the fact that Finstock actually likes him for some reason. The man practically hired him on the spot in spite of Stiles’s obvious nerves. (This was thanks to his “rock solid head”—whatever the fuck that means.) And though Finstock’s face seems to be stuck in the same perpetually skeptical expression he’s been wearing from day one, he also doesn’t get pissy over the fact that his broken plateware costs must have skyrocketed since Stiles started.

Possibly the most important reason, though, is that it’s not the kind of place Derek and Stiles normally go. For one, fries aren’t even on the menu. For another, Finstock’s counter of cutesy pies and cakes attract every Instafamous wannabe kid from campus. (Finstock only suffers through the endless selfies and food photographers because the organic marketing brings in good business. Or so Danny assures him.)

Those dainty little cakes are a pretty major Valentine’s day draw, though. Which means that instead of carrying around lots of scrambled eggs and pancakes, Stiles is mostly carrying shit that took Finstock literal hours to make.

Like the tray of mini strawberry shortcakes. Which Stiles straight-up _demolishes._

It was all from a place of love, he tries to explain to an incredulous Finstock later. Sensing the tray’s miniscule tilt, his panicking lizard brain equated “floor” with “bad” and tried to save the shortcakes—by grabbing them at the top and pulling them protectively toward his chest. For a moment, he stood frozen, staring at the surprised table of double-daters. Who stared right back at him in surprise. (Then he lifted his hand and peeled back the tray to reveal the flattened cakes, half across the front of his bib apron and half stuck to his hand. He apologized profusely and retreated to Finstock to ask for replacements, shamefaced and covered in buttercream. Luckily, the table thought it was _hilarious_ and tipped him really well out of what must have been pure sympathy _._ )

The rest of the evening’s chaos is less klutz-related, though the steady deluge of guests means that there’s more of the standard craziness than the sleepy diner usually sees. One table straight-up dined and dashed before Stiles or Danny could do more than catch sight of their retreating backs. Plus, Stiles has _several_ conversations with irate diners whose presumptuous requests can’t possibly be fulfilled (“Yeah, so, we can’t just _give you_ a custom cake—you have to order it. Like, in advance. Because of time reasons.”). He also witnesses three breakups and one prom-posal within a forty-five minute period.

“I’ve already broken up two couples trying to get it on in the bathroom, so it’s your turn to watch out,” Danny informs him with an eyeroll. They’re both hovering near the touchscreen after putting in their orders, taking advantage of a tiny service lull for a short breather.

Stiles snorts. “Only two? Wow. Good for them, I guess.” He pauses, thinking. “You think we’d be dealing with that if we were out at, like, Palmetto Steakhouse? Somewhere fancy?”

Danny hums. “I bet it’s even worse the fancier you get. Anywhere with high-strung rich people _and_ booze...” They both make a face, temporary allies in the face of adversity, and scan the near-riotous restaurant for further signs of trouble. “God, what is it about Valentine’s, anyway? You’d think it’d be all, you know. Peace and love and goodwill toward men or whatever.”

“I wish,” Stiles says fervently. “But hell no. If I get one more shitty tipper with million-dollar demands tonight, I’m gonna Mcfreakin’ lose it.”

Danny blinks, then turns to smirk at him. “Well, I guess you’re in luck. Your big tipper is walking in.”

Stiles frowns, turning to the door just in time to see Derek step through it. Derek glances around the crowded restaurant, toying with the strap on his backpack. When at last his eyes settle on Stiles, his face breaks out into a smile with the tiniest hint of those bunny teeth.

Stiles makes what’s probably a weird face to cover his surprise. It’s not like Derek’s never been here: he’s picked him up after closing loads of times, and Stiles once gave him a tour of the kitchen at the end of his shift, right before Finstock kicked them both out. But something in Derek’s warm expression suggests he isn’t here for a tour of the place. Stiles isn’t sure why Derek’s come, but he’s totally here for it.

He hurries over, trying not to look like a lovestruck fool (or if so, at least a semi-professional one). “What are you _doing_ here?” he exclaims as he approaches.

“Well, I brought you…” From behind his back, Derek reveals a single red flower. His smile widens at Stiles’s stunned expression. “They didn’t actually have roses anymore since it’s so late, and yeah—this was obviously very last-minute since we agreed not to do anything.” His voice gets a little more sheepish. “I figured it was my turn this year. I think it’s a carnation, but...”

“It’s great,” Stiles tells him. “Here—” He grabs the red carnation and sticks it carefully through the top strap of his apron, letting it sit on his chest kinda like one of those flower things people put on their tuxes. “It’s perfect,” he beams. “You came all the way out here to give me this?”

“Well, I thought maybe I’d stay a while,” Derek replies, though he punctuates this by glancing around the packed restaurant.

“Stay?” Stiles parrots blankly.

Derek shifts from foot to foot. “Yeah. Uh, I couldn’t really concentrate.”

“So you came _here?_ ” Stiles snorts, making a flailing gesture to encompass the uproar happening in the cramped diner at the moment.

“I guess I kinda wanted to be where you were,” Derek tells him resolutely.

Stiles is melting, and he's also maybe going to die right here on the restaurant floor. His face is actually that hot.

He doesn’t respond for long enough that Derek finally notices the smears of pink across the top of his apron. “What happened with...uh…”

“Oh. I ran into a cake,” Stiles explains looking down. “Or, uh, I ran a cake into myself.”

Derek’s face makes a complicated movement. “On accident,” he says, and it comes out a little like a question.

The funny thing is, Derek seeking confirmation on this point isn’t even unwarranted. It’s not like it would be the weirdest thing that Stiles has ever done. “Yes.”

The expression resolves itself into a wary furrow of the brows. “Well, are you okay?”

“I definitely am _now._ And besides, it wasn’t even as bad as it could have been,” Stiles adds cheerily. “I was exactly what you want on V-day: dinner and a show. Anyway, they were cooler about it than the lady who just threatened a lawsuit because I dripped some of her kid’s banana shake on his beanie.”

Derek snorts, but then his gaze catches on something over Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles turns to find Finstock glaring from behind the bar. He thrusts two fingers at his eyes, and then in Stiles’s direction. Stiles offers him a stubborn _one minute_ gesture, though he almost uses another finger before he remembers where he is.

“Look,” Derek says, “I don’t wanna get you in trouble. You guys are busy, and I didn’t really think it through. So if this is weird, I can just—”

Stiles catches Derek’s arm before he can move, partly because his very presence has cleared up Stiles’s burgeoning migraine by like 80%. “No, no! Please. Order something and it’ll be fine. We serve customers, and you’re a customer.” A note of desperation creeps into his voice. “You can keep working and I’ll keep working. It’s totally fine.”

Derek gives him a hopeful look. “Okay,” he agrees at last.

“Okay,” Stiles echoes. He tries to hide a dopey smile, and Derek seems to be doing the same.

After a beat, he shakes himself back into A-game mode and realizes he needs somewhere to actually _put_ Derek. Before he can get too dismayed, Danny waves at him from the corner: his last customers have stood to go and, being the total boss that he is, Danny’s already clearing away their mess.

Stiles tugs Derek over, offering a fervent “ _Thank you_ ” to Danny.

“Don’t mention it. Seriously don’t. You both disgust me,” Danny informs them matter-of-factly, and then he leaves them to it.

Meeting Derek’s perplexed gaze, Stiles shrugs. “He’s joking. Mostly. Finstock had to wrestle me into taking this shift, but everyone just assumed Danny would. His boyfriend’s doing a semester abroad in Italy. Danny’s not taking the distance well.”

“Oh. That sucks.” Pulling notes from his bag, Derek glances over his shoulder and then back at Stiles. “Word on the street is, you never want to get a server mad at you.”

“Unless you want them to mess you up,” Stiles replies cheerfully. Very aware of Finstock’s eyes on his back, he adds, “Anyway, big guy, what’ll it be?”

Derek orders a coffee and pancakes, both of them being the quick and unfussy kinds of things that even Stiles can’t screw up (because Derek’s conscientious like that). Stiles gets them on the double, and it’s kind of nice doing that because he _wants_ to and not because a table’s glaring daggers at his back. By the time he returns, Derek’s set up all his notes and laptop again and is already typing away.

And then that’s it. Nothing changes.

There’s still a wailing infant at one of the window booths, grating at Stiles’s ears. An old lady compliments him on his “boutonniere” and tips him 100%. Stiles hones his “killing with kindness” skills in the face of short tempers. Some guy stiffs him by writing his phone number on the tip line of the receipt. He listens to Finstock’s (spot-on) imitations of a regular who asked for his order to be remade without onions, which he’s become magically allergic to out of nowhere.

It’s the same stuff as always, only it feels different because Derek’s there. Now, when Stiles has five minutes to roll silverware, he does it at Derek’s table to give him the latest blow-by-blow (and let’s be honest, to force the guy to take a break). And when Stiles needs a distraction, he pauses with a tray in hand by Derek’s booth, leaning against his side to skim the document on his laptop.

Sometime after the chaos of the dinnertime rush, he looks up to find the restaurant a little less crowded. Derek, sitting all the way across the floor in the corner booth, looks up and catches his eye. He offers a quick smile.

Stiles beams, hefting the tray of dirty dishes he’s been gathering from the abandoned tables. “Hey, what’s a guy have to do to get his boyfriend some cake on the house?” he shouts to Finstock, enjoying Derek’s grin and, as he turns, Finstock’s answering scowl from where he stands in the prep area.

“Adorable, Stilinski,” Finstock replies as Stiles heads over to the bar, rolling his eyes. The thing is, Finstock seems like kind of a tough guy: he’s peevish and blunt and sometimes loud. He’s got huge, ropy arms that look intimidating until you know he’s earned them from kneading pastry dough and toting kitchen equipment around all the time. He may be kind of a grouch on the surface, but Stiles knows he’s way more bark than bite.

“We really are,” Stiles agrees, pushing the tray onto the counter. “Admit it, you love us.”

“I’d love you more if you’d stop mooning at each other in my restaurant. You’re disturbing the diners.”

“Tell ‘em to file a complaint on Yelp. I’m tight with the owner slash manager slash chef.”

“Who should definitely fire you,” Finstock sighs. “Except that you’re so entertaining.”

Whatever else he might say spills out into a low grumble, but Stiles knows when he’s won.

.

Derek’s not usually one for caffeine. That’s Stiles’s arena: he may look like some wiry kid, but he can down four or more coffees a day with practically no side effects. (Derek thinks this is either magic or some kind of frightening genetic mutation.)

Now, the one and a half coffees he’s had keep him speeding through his work in no time—or maybe that’s because he’s had a couple chances to bounce ideas off of Stiles when he can sneak away from his other tables. It’s enough progress that Derek eventually stops working at such a frantic pace, knowing he’s at least laid a solid foundation he can polish up bit by bit.

Which gives him more opportunities to let his eyes drift toward Stiles.

Funnily enough, Stiles is not nearly as bad at this job as he makes himself out to be in his stories. Yeah, he’s a little off-balance sometimes (Derek winces as, presently, Stiles hits his head while ducking under the bar flap) but he comes at his customers with a cheerful smile that makes them hard-pressed to hold it against him. The decent customers, anyway.

As Derek works on finishing that second coffee, Stiles swings by a few more times to chat. And, more importantly, to share more work drama.

“—and since it was my turn to keep an eye on the bathroom for cock-blocking reasons, I was the one who caught her.”

“She was climbing out the _window_?” Derek demands, incredulous, as Stiles absently flicks his fingers over the mousepad.

“Yeah, apparently her date was that bad. I told Fins, and he helped her sneak out the back door instead. He’s gonna break it to the guy in a few, give her a head start and everything,” he adds, peering over his shoulder. “Man, first dates on Valentine’s are wild _._ ”

“Tell me about it.”

“What are you talking about? Sure, we ate too many curly fries—seriously, _too_ many—”

“Even for you?”

“Even for me. _But_ neither of us were drunk, we had totally normal conversations that didn’t revolve around potential future children, and no one threw a tantrum when the other person talked to the server.”

“True. Although you _did_ almost tackle me to the ground with that ‘goodbye hug.’”

Stiles laughs, finally pulling his eyes from the computer screen. “Are you never gonna let that go? I tripped on the rug! Which you _have_ to believe, now that you actually know me. Anyway,” he adds, gesturing vaguely toward the document, “your conclusion looks dope now.”

“ _Good._ And all thanks to you,” Derek replies. “What would I do without you?”

“Not even,” Stiles says, waving a dismissive hand as he pulls away. “Besides, it’d be the same thing I’d do without _you_ helping me on all those nightmare problems for stats class.”

Derek grins as he turns back to his screen, pausing to tweak a typo.

“Hey,” Stiles adds, catching his attention. “So...Danny’s back on duty keeping an eye on the bathroom door. Finstock’s about to play bouncer to some drunk and angry dudebro. It’s now or never,” he adds seriously. “Wanna get handsy in the back room?”

Derek’s face freezes in something that probably communicates to Stiles just how much he would like that, as well as the fact that he can absolutely never do that.

Stiles, the sadist, is already snickering, tongue caught between his teeth. “Okay. Your loss,” he says, and saunters off.

It takes Derek almost a full minute to get over Stiles's retreating form and get back to work.

In the time it takes him to find and add all of his citations, he has a vague notion of crowds ebbing and flowing around him. Stiles brings him some hash browns and bacon, maybe to make sure Finstock still sees Derek as a paying customer and maybe just because Derek looks like he needs more rations for the grueling work. As the evening wears on, the noise level in the restaurant drops from ear-splitting to tolerable to low.

The thing about downing two coffees back to back, though (besides the jitters), is that it has to come out sometime. It’s nearing ten, an hour before the restaurant closes, and after rewriting part of his initial argument, his bladder makes itself known.

When he gets back from the bathroom, Stiles is sitting at the table across from his laptop. His expression is confused, and he’s toying with the corners of a white to-go box that sits on the table in front of him.

Derek slows as he reaches the table. “What’s up?” he asks curiously.

Stiles’s brows are furrowed. “Fins...gave me a shortcake. Well, _us_ a shortcake.”

Derek snorts. “Really?”

“I think he actually feels bad for making me work. Even though I told him I get it.”

“Huh.” Derek glances back at the man, whose back is to them as he busies himself with food prep. “That’s pretty nice of him.” When he turns back, Stiles is smiling. “What?”

“No, like—he boxed me up a cake. _To go._ ”

He’s not wearing his red apron, Derek realizes. And he’s twirling the carnation in his free hand. “Wait, so you’re not closing?”

“Fins is gonna do it himself.”

Derek leans his hip against the table, pulling his notes toward him so he can stack them up. “Okay,” he smirks, “Wanna get out of here?”

“Why, Derek, I thought you’d never ask.”

Derek gathers his stuff into his backpack and throws it on. When he pulls out his wallet to head to the counter, though, Stiles stops him. “I got you this time,” he says slyly. The sweet gesture might have _almost_ been smooth if he didn’t say the words right as he slid the cake off the table—literally almost off the table and onto the floor. He juggles it and gets it cradled safely in his hands with a sheepish grin that, rather than inspiring amusement, makes Derek’s heart stutter for some reason.

“Thanks, Fins!” Stiles calls, turning to lean over the bar counter.

Finstock is still facing away, but he turns to give them a scowl. “Get the hell out of here, you idiots, before I change my mind,” he orders gruffly.

Danny, seated on a back tabletop and looking more bored than hassled in the dwindling crowd, offers a wave as they head out. “Sure, rub it in!” he calls.

Derek reaches for Stiles’s hand automatically on the way out. Despite his assurances otherwise, he’s pretty happy to leave the weird Valentine’s Day dinner microcosm behind them as they spill out into the cool evening air. He guesses Stiles must feel the same.

Campus is two blocks away, but as they move away from the red neon lights outside Bobby’s, they find the street well-lit and lined with a combination of off-campus housing and the occasional closed shop. Music echoes from somewhere farther off, and Derek catches the sound of laughter from a passing car.

Stiles breaks the silence between them with a yawn. His morning classes have made his late closing times pretty tough this semester.

“Wanna go somewhere quiet?” Derek asks. “My place?”

“Your place,” Stiles agrees, without missing a beat. “We can put on a movie I may or may not fall asleep to.”

“We can pick up something to eat on the way if you’re hungry.”

“Nah, I’m really not. I finished half a sandwich between catastrophes.”

“Okay. Well, fair warning: there’s only one shortcake, and I’m gonna fight you for the whipped cream frosting. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“What?” Stiles laughs. “It’s V-day! Where’s the romance?”

“It’s not _our_ Valentine’s, though. Ours isn’t till the weekend.”

“Oh, I see how it is. Fight me for the icing, then. I’ll mess you up.”

“But you can pick the movie,” Derek offers with faux generosity.

“Yeah, only because I’m gonna fall asleep in thirty seconds! You’ll change it right after.”

“I’ll even not talk about basketball...for once,” Derek adds in amusement.

“Again, that doesn’t count if I’m gonna pass out! Plus, I’ll believe that when I see it.” Stiles counters good-naturedly. “Or hear it. Or _don’t_ hear it.”

When they get back, Stiles hops in the shower while Derek flops on the sofa, finally responding to Jackson’s long series of blow-by-blow texts detailing the night’s date. When Stiles gets out, they put on one of the _Star Trek_ movies—Derek can’t remember which one or which timeline, and he’s pretty sure Stiles is messing with him when he explains the context—and stretch out together.

The cake sits on the coffee table, forgotten, as Stiles drifts off against Derek’s shoulder. As promised, Derek eventually grabs the remote and changes the channel, though he does (with effort so as not to wake Stiles) manage to close the to-go box, cake and frosting uneaten.

This weekend will be their anniversary, or at least the celebration of it. It’s going to be different from their usual: Stiles doesn’t know it yet, but Derek’s been thinking he deserves somewhere nicer than the familiar foods of the casual diners they usually frequent.

But he doesn’t think Stiles will mind.

**Author's Note:**

> This was at first a story just about Derek and Stiles, and then Finstock elbowed his way in and started baking cupcakes. He was very persuasive about his place here, and it’s hard to deny the tenacity of a cook/manager/owner.
> 
> If you enjoyed, let me know below - and Happy Valentine's!


End file.
